Whatever jokes

How much does it cost a pirate to pierce his ears?

A buccaneer.

I hate to be the one to defy sacred myth, but I believe he's a she. Think about it. Christmas is a big, organized, warm, fuzzy, nurturing social deal, and I have a tough time believing a guy could possibly pull it all off!

For starters, the vast majority of men don't even think about selecting gifts until Christmas Eve. It's as if they are all frozen in some kind of Ebenezerian Time Warp until 3 p.m. on Dec. 24th, when they - with amazing calm - call other errant men and plan for a last-minute shopping spree.

Once at the mall, they always seem surprised to find only Ronco products, socket wrench sets, and mood rings left on the shelves. (You might think this would send them into a fit of panic and guilt, but my husband tells me it's an enormous relief because it lessens the 11th hour decision-making burden.) On this count alone, I'm convinced Santa is a woman. Surely, if he were a man, everyone in the universe would wake up Christmas morning to find a rotating musical Chia Pet under the tree, still in the bag.

Another problem for a he-Santa would be getting there. First of all, there would be no reindeer because they would all be dead, gutted and strapped on to the rear bumper of the sleigh amid wide-eyed, desperate claims that buck season had been extended. Blitzen's rack would already be on the way to the taxidermist.

Even if the male Santa DID have reindeer, he'd still have transportation problems because he would inevitably get lost up there in the snow and clouds and then refuse to stop and ask for directions. Add to this the fact that there would be unavoidable delays in the chimney, where the Bob Vila-like Santa would stop to inspect and repoint bricks in the flue. He would also need to check for carbon monoxide fumes in every gas fireplace, and get under every Christmas tree that is crooked to straighten it to a perfectly upright 90-degree angle.

Other reasons why Santa can't possibly be a man:
- Men can't pack a bag.
- Men would rather be dead than caught wearing red velvet.
- Men would feel their masculinity is threatened...having to be seen with all those elves.
- Men don't answer their mail.
- Men would refuse to allow their physique to be described even in jest as anything remotely resembling a "bowlful of jelly."
- Men aren't interested in stockings unless somebody's wearing them.
- Having to do the "Ho Ho Ho" thing would seriously inhibit their ability to pick up women.
- Finally, being responsible for Christmas would require a commitment.

I can buy the fact that other mythical holiday characters are men......... - Father Time shows up once a year unshaven and looking ominous. Definite guy. - Cupid flies around carrying weapons. - Uncle Sam is a politician who likes to point fingers.

Any one of these individuals could pass the testosterone screening test. But not St. Nick. Not a chance. As long as we have each other, good will, peace on earth, faith and Nat King Cole's version of "The Christmas Song," it probably makes little difference what gender Santa is.

I just wish she'd quit dressing like a guy!!!

Dear Mr. Blix,

Welcome to Iraq! It is so good of you and your Weapons Inspectors to visit my humble nation once again. My people are overjoyed to assist the totally neutral and gloriously impotent UN in serving their American Masters. I realize that many of you would much rather be touring the Third World for some magnificently ineffective do-nothing NGO, but alas you are here compromising your values on behalf of Western oil companies.

Before you wipe the blood from your hands and get down to the business of concocting reasons for the US to bomb us back to the stone ages of 1991, I thought I'd help reorient you to the ways of magical Baghdad with a few "Dos" and "Don'ts".

DO:
Slavishly patronize Baghdad locals with chocolate bars and worthless Western baubles. Nothing ingratiates us more to intrusive throngs of chubby, sweaty, lobster-red warmongers then when they pass out meaningless tchotkes to us Third World "savages". We will remember these tokens as we dance on your bleached bones. I joke!

DO:
Ignore my playful peoples penchant for recreational HAZMAT suit use. Moreover, ignore the glowing, three-tailed rats that are indigenous to Baghdad. While you're at it, ignore the totally desolate warehouse full of rotting canisters at the corner of Saddam Is Great Avenue and Drown In Blood Yankee Dogs Boulevard.

DO:
Feel free to enter any building, factory, or hospital you desire. And while you're busy violating my paranoid and fragile egos sovereignty, feel free to double-check the bedpans of the dying, gut the teddy bears of orphans, and pour into the dirt any and all bottles of weapons grade baby formula you might uncover.

DON'T:
Forget your high-tech Weapons of Mass Destruction Poking Sticks or Nintendo Gameboys at the hotel. We know that without these useless, aesthetic "tools" you cannot unearth the make-believe stores of plutonium I don't have hidden underneath my opulent Presidential Palaces that my people willed me to build for my own noble pleasures.

DON'T:
Ignore the cultural relativism we know you studied in your Liberal Arts Colleges. We humble Iraqis have a far different culture than the advanced West. Whereas you respect the differences between languages, cultures and value systems, I want to kill. Kill you, your family, friends, grammar school teachers, the Israelis, whole bunches of Saudis and just for good measure, my new yet treacherous-looking barber Adnan.

DON'T:
Mock our cherished Iraqi way of life. While you might think it barbaric and backward, our seemingly brutal governmental system is based on sound fascistic principles that have helped keep the majority of Arabs in splendid desolate squalor for decades.

I truly hope your stay here is a positive experience. I pray that those of you I do not like do not accidentally get caught in the crossfire of the invasion you are busy inventing!

In Me I Trust,
Saddam

A pirate walks into a bar with a peg leg, a parrot on his shoulder, and a steering wheel on his pants. The bartender says, "hey, you've got a steering wheel on your pants."

The pirate says, "Arrrr, I know. It's driving me nuts."